Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost
Year A, RCL
August 10, 2008
All Saints’, Bentonville
Gospel:
Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."
Peter answered him, "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." He said, "Come." So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, "Lord, save me!" Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, "Truly you are the Son of God."
There are only a couple of characteristics I have in common with Jesus – the ability to walk on water, as those of you who know me well can attest, is not one of them. The characteristic I’m referring to is Jesus’ penchant for seeking time alone, away from the crowds where he could find solitude. It seems that Jesus was something of an introvert, and he needed time alone to recharge, to go up to the mountain to pray, to meditate.
One of my favorite contemplative tasks is skipping stones on a still body of water.
Nothing focuses my attention more. Walking along a lake or creek, I automatically cast my eyes downward in search of the perfect skipping stone. I look for a rounded, flat rock, not too heavy, and small enough to fit between my thumb and forefinger. Sandstone is the best, just the right heft and with gritty edges that allow me to grip the stone firmly, so that with just the proper spin, the stone will whirl like a flying saucer, skimming along the top of the lake, touching down and rising, and kissing the water again, over and over, until the stone appears to float for instant before slipping out of sight and dropping to the bottom of the lake.
I’ve never been to the Sea of Galilee, the body of water where the disciples rowed hard against the wind and Jesus was seen walking on the sea. But if I were to go there and if along the shore of the Sea of Galilee there are smooth, flat stones, I assure you that I would be skipping rocks across the water.
In today’s gospel reading, Jesus, exhausted after the feeding of the 5000, the miracle story we heard last Sunday, went up to the mountain, by himself, to rest and to pray. When he came down from the mountain the next morning he could see the disciples in a boat, as the story is told in Mark, “straining at the oars against an adverse wind.” And as we read today, Jesus, “came walking toward them on the sea.” And Peter, impetuous Peter, recognizing Jesus, leaped overboard, took a couple of steps and sunk like a stone.
This story of Jesus walking on the water, as the Gospel of Mark tells it, leaves out Peter’s reaction entirely. In Mark, the disciples were terrified at seeing what they thought was a ghost walking on the water, but Jesus spoke to them, told them not to be afraid. Then Jesus climbed into the boat and the wind ceased.
The story as told in Matthew is far more interesting. More interesting, I think, because the fascinating thing about these miracle stories really isn’t the miracle itself, but how people react to them. “Miracle stories are not so much about the miracles, but the stories that get told through the miracles”. The miracle is in the context, the way the characters act in miracle stories - the disciples, the crowds, the healed, the fed…it is their reaction that is the real story. And so it is with Matthew’s version – we get this very dramatic scene in which Peter sees Jesus walking on water and then Peter asks Jesus to command him to come to him on the water.
And Peter, whose name means “rock”, the disciple of whom Jesus will say a few verses later, “ thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church,” took a few steps and sunk like the stone that is his namesake, and perhaps his nature.
This story causes me to wonder just how it is that God works in the world. Peter sought a commandment, “Command me to come to you on the water, “he says to Jesus. And after seeking a commandment, what Peter confronted was a law – a natural law, the law of gravity that made it certain that Peter would sink. Do we worship a God that is part of the natural order, or one that occasionally slips outside of that order? Is God’s activity in the world uniform or variable? Can we count on God to be an unwavering presence in our lives, or do we look to God to be a source of instant miracles, defying the natural order of creation, so that our individual needs and desires can be fulfilled.
Peter wanted to walk on the water, and for a moment, he may have. But more importantly, he found that the Christ he sought was with him, a constant presence in the storm. And Jesus led Peter back into the boat to be transformed.
On of my favorite poems by the 13th century Sufi mystic Rumi, goes like this.
A chickpea in a pot leaps from the flame,
out from the boiling water,
Crying, “Why do you set fire to me?
You chose me, bought me, brought me home for this?”
The cook hits it with her spoon into the pot.
“No! Boil nicely, don’t jump away from the one who makes the fire.
I don’t boil you out of hatred.
Through boiling you may grow flavorful, nourishing,
and united with vital human spirit.
I don’t inflict this suffering out of spite.
Once green and fresh, you drank rain in the garden;
you drank for the sake of this fire.
The poem is about transformation, about how the chickpea leaps from the pot before it’s fully cooked, fully transformed into something that God finds pleasing. Knowing that the chickpea isn’t quite ready, the cook knocks the chickpea back into the pot so that the process of changing, of becoming, can proceed.
Peter stepped out of the boat just as the chickpea leaped from the pot – before he was fully transformed. His journey with Christ and his fellow disciples was to continue. He wasn’t ready to walk on water.
We, like Peter are often stuck in a stage where we want God to command us, give us the rules, make it all simple. We want God to tell us what to do. Life is full of crossroads. There are choices to be made about jobs and children, and potential mates, and money and which church to be a part of. And we are always pleading with God to intervene.
And all along what God wants for us is to be transformed. We need more than commandments. We need change.
Episcopalians have retained the word “nave” to describe this space in which we worship as a community. The Latin origins of “nave” denote boat or ship. I like to think of us as sailing in this boat together – a boat not tied to the dock or anchored in the harbor, but on a journey, as a people, weathering storms together, having faith that God is with us in the boat.
I don’t expect us to walk on water, but if we are to connect with the Jesus who does, it takes a little lightness. If we retain the heaviness of Peter the rock, we will surely sink with the first step. We might have to learn to skip like stones.
It is upon people like us, people with uncertain faith, people who sometimes skip and sometimes sink, people like Peter, that God has chosen to build God’s church, a people who are transformed in the process.